Things That Go Bump in the Night
by Bishi-bishi
Summary: In every dark corner veils a story untold. These are short drabbles that revolve around our favorite Hetalia characters as they entwine themselves with the paranormal, the unusual, and things that go bump in the night. Drabble 02: Mirage
1. Simulacrum

**Hello there! This will be the place where I'll be practicing my writing and such. I'm not much experienced with writing horror, or writing at all for that matter so helpful comments and criticisms will be fantabulously welcomed with open arms :D**

 **Enjoy!**

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Drabble 01: Simulacrum

Alfred F. Jones steps into the stale, funky smelling room of his new apartment room after a tiresome overtime at work. It's cheap, worm, inconveniently located at the 6th floor, and definitely something only his Japanese landlord can love. The small space left little room for, well, anything so the newly owned quarters only had a bed tucked in a corner, a wardrobe sitting snugly on the opposite corner, and what he thinks is a mirror perched across the foot of the bed. He doesn't really know, nor does he really care much, because he has yet to replace the used up light bulb that looks like it's housed various insects enough to feed a whole family of frogs. Nonetheless, he doesn't complain that much because it was either this, or sleeping out in that rickety park bench he passed by earlier. But as he plops his weary tush on the lumps of the single spring bed, he grimaces and thinks maybe the bench might've been the better option after all.

Even so, Alfred never gets the chance to weigh his options because as soon as his head hits the scrawny pillow, his eyes grow heavy as exhaustion catches up with his body, sleep starting to wash over him as quick as the falling autumn leaves of the late October. The wiry framed glasses are set down beside his head and he yawns heartily, settling in for the night.

He is only given a mere glimpse of a well deserved sleep, however, when he feels the cold slither up his feet and no amount of foot-to-foot friction can bring the heat back to his numbing limbs. Sleep deprived and irritated, the American sits up with a groan to rub his ice cold feet with calloused hands.

Alfred sees a movement from across the room and jumps.

It's dark, his heart his thumping a mile a minute, and he might as well be blind with his failing eyesight. Trembling fingers scramble across the sheets in frantic search for the spectacles Alfred's so desperate to jam into his face.

He does manage to, after a couple of tries, and several beats and a snort later, Alfred laughs.

And from across the room, his reflection moves along with him.

He shakes his head and chalks his skittish behavior to the halloween spirit plaguing the city. And really, the room looks like something straight out of a crime scene where the underpaid salaryman kills himself, and only when the neighbors smell the putrid stench permeating through the door do they find his very dead and definitely decomposing body.

His last thoughts effectively cuts off his guffaws and his frazzled nerves to shoot up once more. With a _fwump_ , Alfred finally decides to turn in for the night.

Before he lost his sense of the conscious world, Alfred swears he sees his reflection on the mirror smile.

* * *

The morning sun filters in the room and Alfred sits stiffly on the bed without so much of a single peep. There's nothing good in the morning, only raw cold fear sits heavily in his chest and he can't breathe.

Because across the foot of his bed is an open window and there is no mirror in sight.

Only faint bruising handprints that stretched across trembling limbs.


	2. Mirage

**Okay, this is longer than a drabble, but whatever hahaha Contructive Criticism is welcomed because I need it :^D**

 **enjoy!**

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Drabble 02: Mirage

The wind is slamming angrily against the wooden windows and Arthur Kirkland is irritated. The _clacking_ of its hinges, the howling wisps of gale that seem to permeate and whistle through the crevices cool his tea before he can truly savor such fine luxury. That tea in which he treasures greatly, even more so during horrid weathers such as these times, has now been degraded into a sniveling uncouth, pathetic excuse for an Earl Grey. And dear God, the _rattling_.

Oh, woe is his irritated soul indeed.

Arthur bundles up in a cocoon of quilts and tucks himself in the tiny corner of his couch. The news paper sits on the coffee table, opened half-way through and slightly sloshed with cold tea, _blech_ , has been abandoned when the repetitive news about the severe storm seem to stress him out more. The knowledge that he might, no, _will be_ stuck here in his admittedly boring (but very dashing) home for the weekend, _when he should be out there in the pub having the time of his life_ , makes the Englishman snuggle miserably in the layers of his quilts.

 _Perhaps I should revisit one of my favorite literary classics_ , he sighs quietly.

 _I sure hope my rose bush comes out intact after this blasted weather is over with..._

Arthur feels his eyelids grow heavy with each passing thought. What an unproductive day. He's done nothing but mope around in his comfy couch 'till the sun set on its horizon. Mentally, he half heartedly berates himself for it. He should get his lazy arse up and check on his poor rose bush outside—

Heavy mahogany doors _slam_ against beige walls and the presence of the torrent rainfall invade Arthur's senses. He flinches at the sudden sound, turns and is instantly cautious with the unexpected intruder.

Through the freezing downpour stands a still Alfred F. Jones, and he absolutely soaked to the bone.

"Christ, Alfred! What in blazes are you doing here? It's almost evening and the storm!", Arthur is quick to usher the lad in and shuts the abused door as gently as possible. Swiftly, he grabs a wooden chair from the dining table and the cleanest towel he could find. He rubs vigorously through the damp mess of blond hair and pushes the shivering lad down on the chair to sit. Alfred, looking half-drowned to the world, says nothing and Arthur grows increasingly concerned with every beat of silence. Before he can bombard the boy with questions, Arthur decides to put it off for later and dashes off to snatch a set of fresh clothes to change in, lest he wants the American to catch a bad cold. Arthur's sure there's still some clothes that the American left here somewhere...

A plain white shirt and and cotton sweatpants later, Alfred is dry and fully clothed, but has yet to say a syllable. Arthur opens his mouth.

"Alfred, dear, won't you speak up? I'm worried out of my wits here– you're still not telling me why you're here in the first place. Won't you at least tell me that?"

"..."

A breathy silence passes, and Arthur runs a frustrated hand through hay colored locks. Agitated, he rises up from the couch to leave for the kitchen, where he would fix up a cup of joe for the unresponsive teen.

That is, until Arthur feels an almost imperceptible tug on his sleeve. Arthurs stops in his tracks and strains his ears to understand Alfred's mumbles.

"Arthur... I'm– I'm _scared_. I don't know what to do— t-there's somebody there..."

Never has he heard the lad sound so _afraid_.

"Who's there?"

"... he's coming after me. He'll be here soon—"

"Alfred, Calm down! What's going on?"

"... And– and then he'll be, he'll be—"

"Alfred!"

"—coming after—"

"Get a hold of yourself, boy!"

"— _you_."

Alfred finishes with a breathy whisper and Arthur is stumped into silence. The Englishman swallows heavily and tries to inquire nonchalantly, but his words come out as staccato as his hastening pulse.

"Wha–What nonsense are you talking about?", Arthur grabs him by the shoulders in attempt to bring some sense back into the boy. "Alfred, please, I'm– what happened to you?"

Alfred is shivering and lost in his own little world. His shakes his head, back and forth, and the cries of ' _no_ ' reverberate through the damp, gloomy atmosphere. The rain outside falls as heavily as before, and the rattling of windows still makes its unwelcomed presence known. Arthur heaves a heavy sigh.

"Come on, poppet, I think you just need to rest."

Arthur gently guides the shivering lad in his usual room in the Englishman's home. He is whiplashed by the strong sense of nostalgia as he tucks the weary teen in bed, and places a quick peck on his boy's clammy forehead.

"Sleep well, love."

Arthur steps out of the room with a quiet _creak_ to retreat to his own quarters. The clacking of the windows drowns out Alfred's reply.

* * *

Arthur tosses and turns, agitated and definitely not sleeping well himself. The wind outside is still howling and whistling, and his rattling windows are _still clacking_. The thunderous sounds of the rain sporadically come and go.

 _Dear Lord, will sleep ever come?_ Arthur groans miserably in the cold night.

His bed is now disorganized through all the fussing and shuffling, with the covers thrown every now and then, and pillows gracelessly kicked on the floor. Arthur decides, with an irritated jerk of his leg, that he will get some damn sleep now, and wills himself to listen to the lulling sounds of the weather.

The pouring rain goes _shhhhaa, shhhhaa_ , with an occasionally _tink tink tink_ of droplets hitting the glass pane. The frames of his window still clack endlessly, but he supposed it's rhythmic rattling can be appreciated if he wishes to. Arthur feels sleep coming to him, and focuses his ear on the gusts of wind. He hears it soughing through the window, absentmindedly reminding him of a child whimpering for his mother.

 _g... ooohh... aa... thur..._

The winds seem to pick up speed and change its tone as the pitch goes higher with every _tick_ and _tock_ of his clock. Arthur shifts in his bed more comfortably and he's drifting further, and further...

 _...eeeave... leeea... ve... leeeEEEEEEEE–_

He shoots up quicker than fired bullet as a piercing _shriek_ shoots through his ears. He's gasping and panicking because _what in the bloody hell was that_ , and jumps out of bed. He hears blood rushing in his ears and sees not a thing for the room is absent of color and all is left is a room as dark as coal. With heavy steps, he dashes frantically out of his room and makes a beeline for Alfred's own.

The door flies open and reveals the blond teen scooted against a corner, shaking for all he's worth. His eyes are wide open and staring at the red velvet drapes covering the window. Alfred points a shaky finger.

"T-There's someone there..."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous—"

"Someone is there! I swear Arthur, I'm not lying– _please_ believe me..."

Arthur sighs and fully enters the room, deciding to let the sounds of the worsening weather guide him to the window.

He slowly takes cautious steps; trembling, shaky, and hesitating cold feet press against the ground. The floor boards are creaking under his weight and Arthur feels the suffocating dread start to overwhelm him. Small steps, he's a meter away from the rattling window. So close, _too_ close for Arthur. He yanks the drapes away and—

Nothing.

The droplets of rain _tink tink tink_ on the window pane.

"See? Alfred my boy, there's nothing here. It was nothing but a bad dream. Now, go back to bed, I'll cook breakfast tomorrow."

"... Stay with me, please?" Alfred whimpers.

Arthur feels something inside him melt and soften up. How could he say no to that?

"Ugh, fine, you insufferable brat... B-but I'm not doing this for you, for your information! I want to sleep without you screaming at every nightmare."

They both slip into bed, and Alfred bounces back to his cheery self.

"Aww, so you do care!"

"Shut up, and go to sleep!"

And Arthur is more than relieved.

Through the pouring rain going _shhhaa, shhhaa_ , the tiny droplets of water going _tink tink tink_ , the wind with its shrieks and howls, and even the banging and the rattling of the window, he ignores it all.

* * *

In the raging storm of the evening, there stands a drenched man in front of a window of a modest house. His bruised fists are banging, and banging, and _banging_ , beating against the window pane, and shaking its very foundations. His pasty face is set to a frightened grimace, his greyish pallor stands stark against the black of the night, with bloodshot cornflower eyes widened with fear.

"ARTHUR GET OUT OF THERE! THAT'S NOT ME, THAT'S NOT ME!"

It's the bloodshot eyes of Alfred F. Jones, and his shrieks are muffled by the closed window that rattles from his doing.

* * *

Slowly, Arthur closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

Eternally.


End file.
